


Rainy Mondays In January

by apolla



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: 2000s, Adulting is hard, Future Fic, London, what might be and what could not be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 20:31:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18630739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolla/pseuds/apolla
Summary: It's 2008 and James Maguire is having a bad day. He really ought to have stopped at the supermarket to pick up alcohol...A old, familiar face is waiting on his doorstep, as soaked by the rain as him.He really, really should've stopped at Sainsbury's.





	Rainy Mondays In January

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a thing that I suddenly wrote without necessarily wanting to... I do NOT need a new fandom, plskthxbai, and yet here I am...
> 
>  
> 
> Let me be super-frank (as opposed to Super-Grover): I'm not from Derry. My *granny* was, but I'm not and as such I've been and I know it's awesome but I shan't pretend any greater or lesser understanding than that. I am, however, a recovering Catholic so Sister Michael really does strike the fear of the almighty into my heart whenever her eyes so much as narrow.
> 
> As such, no matter how much I think I know about Derry and the nuances of its history and its present, I'm sure to get stuff wrong. If you're from Derry or Norn Iron yourself and you see something wrong, please tell me.
> 
> Finally: I'm not good at regular updates, as folks in my other fandoms can tell you. It's just not how my life unfurls. I'm not going to promise you updates on Mondays/Tuesdays/when the planets align, but I'll do my best. Hit the subscribe button for notifications if you're interested and if not, I get ya.
> 
> Mostly: it's gonna be a bloody long wait for the next season, no matter how long it actually takes... and that's maybe what this is about.

_London, 2008._

It was fucking raining again. It was a long fucking January so far, and this specific Monday was gloomy and grim and 34 hours long.

James pulled his collar up in a mostly futile attempt to keep the water running down his back.

At least he was on his way from, not to, work. A long, hot bath would sort him out...

Someone caught him in the shoulder as they passed on the street. James stumbled only a little.

'Watch where you're going, arsehole!'

'Same to you!' he snapped back, not even breaking his stride.

The rain meant that the streets were unbusy once he got away from the junction and he took a chance to take a deep breath and calm the hell down.

It wasn't a good day by most measures, and he'd spent the last three hours fantasising in great detail about how marvellous it would be to kick off his shoes and flump down onto the sofa to continue his rewatch of Chris Eccleston-era Doctor Who.

He'd have to sort all his wet stuff out first. He'd have to dry off and probably get some hot food in him. He could feel his relaxing evening getting ever more distant.

Two more corners and his front door would be in sight. His socks were soaked through his not-at-all waterproof trainers. He was an uncomfortable mix of sweaty and damp from the train and the walk, and cold and wet from the rain.

This day sucked so, so hard. He couldn't even remember if there was any beer left in the fridge. He should've stopped at Sainsbury's and picked something up.

The faded blue of the front door was a faint glimmer through the gloom. He was so close to safety...

His eyes were almost closed entirely against the onslaught of stinging, freezing water, and he was making his way more through memory than vision.

Damp aching fingers slapped against the wet metal gate, and he opened his eyes fully to see the steps up to the door.

There was something in the way. He blinked several times to restore his sight to their contact lens perfection and saw then that it was no something, but someone. Someone huddled in the porch, almost pinned against the door and far from the rain as space would allow - which was not much. A small cabin-sized suitcase rested neatly against the wall.

Any plans for the evening were utterly, completely, irrevocably fucked.

Her blonde hair was plastered to her weather-pinked face. 'Hello, James.'

'Erin?'

'Don't you recognise me?'

'Of course!' He hastened to shut the gate and reach the door. 'I just didn't...'

Didn't what?

'...expect to see you.'

'Well, that's what showing up unannounced will do. Can we get out of the rain before I explain?'

'Oh! Yes.' He fumbled his keys out of his bag and into the lock with almost-dignity and let her inside first.

He kicks the door closed behind them and for a moment relished the serenity of being inside. The quickly-forming puddle on the tiled floor forced him into further action.

'I'll put the kettle on,' he told Erin, barely even looking at her. 'And I'll get you a towel.'

'Thank you.' Had he dared look at her, he'd have seen she was studiously avoiding him.

As he went into the kitchen, James tried to remember if the rest of the house was fit for guests. Was it? He could hardly remember his own name, the year, the current Prime Minister or how to use a kettle, so he gave up trying to achieve anything more than simple tasks.

  1. Kettle: full.
  2. Kettle: on.
  3. Towels: in airing cupboard upstairs.
  4. Go: Upstairs.
  5. Open: cupboard
  6. Retrieve: Two towels.
  7. Gratitude: Sunday Laundry.
  8. Go: Downstairs.
  9. Towel A: hand to Erin.
  10. Towel B: apply to hair.
  11. Mirror: avoid.



While James was busy trying to human, Erin had moved into the front room. The stack of DVDs on the table was waiting for him; he'd left a blanket askew, but otherwise, the room was tolerable.

'You still like the Doctor Who, then?'

'It's even better now. Rewatching before the new series starts.'

'Ah.' Erin faltered then and resorted to dabbing at her hair with the fluffy green towel he'd handed her.

The kettle was so loud that even two rooms away it still sounded like he was standing next to it. It filled the painful silence that his brain didn't let him fill with anything so intelligent as words.

'This is an amazing house, James.'

'Yeah.' He felt like his limbs were too long - like he was suddenly a fawn on fresh ice. Or like it was 1994 all over again.

'My Ma mentioned, er- I mean-' She blinked rapidly, gaze all over the place in that way he remembered from the old days when she would get so embarrassed that it was like aliens had taken over in her brain and were throwing a party instead of helping her function.

He was well-used to people fucking up their condolences, and it had been two whole years, so it was easy to wave it all away. 'Yeah. It's OK. I got this house.'

'And no flatmates?'

'No... well... no.'

'Girlfriend?' Her gaze started to roam again.

'Yes. Sort of.'

'Sort of?'

'She's...'

'Made up?'

'No, she's a real person!'

Erin's lips quirked. 'I was joking, James.'

'I know!'

It was amazing how easy it was to fall back into how he used to be. Defensive and sensitive and a ball-ache. Tears burned hot, and he rubbed at his hair with the towel to cover it up.

The kettle clicked off. Saved.

He managed to regain enough motor function to make two mugs of tea. He gave Erin the giant HARD ROCK CAFE ORLANDO mug Michelle had given him and kept the Dalek one for himself.

They settled, still damp, on the sofa, mercifully not too close.

'So.'

'So.

'Why are you here, Erin?'

'Well...' she cleared her throat, took a scalding, regrettable sip of tea. 'I'm... Clare's on holiday, so I couldn't go to her house and-'

'Why are you here at my house?'

'I... I needed to get out of Derry on short notice, and I'd have gone to Clare and Addy's down in West Norwood, but they're in feckin' Goa or someplace and- I mean, I could've checked into a hotel, but I didn't feel safe on my own and-'

'Why wouldn't you be safe?'

'I kinda... wrote some articles.'

'About?'

'About a couple of drug dealers. They weren't thrilled with me.'

'Can't you just tell the police?'

'It's more complicated than that, James.' She rolled her eyes as she always had done back in the days when James Maguire was the wee stupid English boy who couldn't even go to school with other boys for fear of being beaten into a coma.

He hadn't understood the nuances then and knew enough now to know he'd only scratched the surface.

'But... it's better now, isn't it?'

'Better, not perfect. As you'd know if-' Erin tried to go at her tea again but thought better of it. She sank back into the soft cushions. 'Anyway, I got some threats, and my editor said I should take some time away. So, here I am.'

Her hands shook a little. Cold or fear?

'Well... you're welcome to stay...'

'Thanks, James. It's good to have somewhere nice like this so I can get writing.'

'Writing?'

'The article, aye.'

'You're not going to write about the people that are threatening you?'

She scoffed. Another eye roll. 'They threatened a _journalist_! I'm not letting that slide... but I'll write it here while PSNI does their bit.'

'Still, it's-'

'This is what I do.'

'It shouldn't be like this.'

'But it is.'

'Well...' he coughed back a lump in his throat. 'I think you're very brave.'

She shrugged. 'It's nothing.'

'No, it isn't.'

'You haven't seen it there lately. It's better, but... it's not like here. It'll never be like here.'

'I wouldn't want it to be,' he replied softly, memories surfacing of sunny afternoons by the Foyle, long days at school with a tie and religion both fit to strangle him, too-short nights and-

'Well sure,' Erin continued. 'We worked that out when you never came back.'

'I've been back!'

Erin sat up and poked him in the chest. 'Once. Nine years ago. For seven hours.'

'Eight.'

'Fuck off, James.'

'It's my house!'

Erin closed her eyes and sank back down. 'So it is.'

'I'll...' James took a breath to steady his nerves and his temper as he got to his feet. Really, alcohol would've been a good shot, even on a Monday.. 'I'll go and make sure the spare room is ready for you.'

Erin's eyes fluttered closed, and he saw now how exhausted she was. 'Get that: James Maguire is a grown-up with a spare room. When did that happen?'

'Just when you weren't looking, I suppose.'

'And who's fault is that?'

On a different day, he might snap back. On a better day, it would be nothing. Today, he was tired and not even dry.

'I'll put the heating on.'

God, Mondays in January were the fucking worst.


End file.
